


Another Monstrous Monkee Mash

by Madame (McKay)



Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-26
Updated: 2011-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-26 13:53:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McKay/pseuds/Madame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys pick on Peter one Hallowe'en.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Monstrous Monkee Mash

**Author's Note:**

> Written way back in 1998.

"Slowly he turned...step by step...creeping towards the unsuspecting maiden, and--BOO!" Micky curled his fingers into claws and mock-lunged at Peter, who ran across the room, flung his arms around Mike and burst into tears.

"Aw, Micky...Now look what you did. You made Peter cry," Mike chastised his room-mate as he awkwardly patted the sobbing young man on the back. "It's okay, Peter. Micky, what've I told you about tellin him scary stories?"

"But, Mike, it's Halloween!" Micky protested. "You're supposed to tell spooky stories and get scared! And this was one of my best--werewolves and ghosts and disembodied heads and mummies and vampire chicks and--"

"Not with Peter in the room," Mike replied firmly. "They give him nightmares. Remember what happened when he overheard you tellin that story last year about the creepin hand? He slept with me for a week and kept kickin me off the bed. I ain't goin through that this year. No more stories."

"Oh, all right..." Micky grumbled, scuffling his feet as he stared at the floor.

"Why don't you go lie down for a while before the gig? We still got a couple of hours," Mike suggested, giving him a little nudge on the small of his back to guide him towards the downstairs bedroom.

"O-okay," Peter sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. As soon as he had closed the bedroom door behind himself, Peter dashed to his bed, thrust his hand under the pillow and pulled out his teddy bear, cuddling it against his chest as he curled up on his bed in a tight little ball, visions of the horrible events of Micky's story playing in his head. "It's not real..." he whispered to Mr. Bean as if reassuring the little stuffed animal rather than himself. "It was just a story...just a story..."

As he repeated the words over and over like a mantra, his eyes grew heavy, and gradually he could no longer ward off the sleep that was engulfing him. Soon he stopped fighting, closed his eyes and drifted off. It seemed like he'd scarcely dropped off when he felt Davy's hand on his shoulder, shaking gently.

"C'mon, Petah--wakey, wakey. We've got to get dressed for the gig."

"Huh--?" Peter sat up, letting Mr. Bean fall to the floor as he rubbed his bleary eyes. "What??"

"The gig," Davy repeated patiently. "C'mon, man--get it together. We don't want to be late."

The two young men dressed in their matching red eight button shirts with the black turtlenecks since it was a chilly night and the grey trousers, and when they emerged from their bedroom, Mike and Micky were already loitering by the spiral staircase, waiting for them.

"Ready?" Mike asked tersely, dangling the car keys from one finger as he picked up his guitar case and headed for the door.

"Ready!" The other three chorused, and with that, they were off.

"Aw, man...Micky, I knew I shouldn't have let you navigate," Mike grumbled as he clenched the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"Well, I thought it said turn right at the intersection," Micky replied plaintively. "But I guess the right on the map was my left, so you should've turned left instead of right because right wasn't right, it was wrong."

"Oh, that clears it up," Mike retorted, rolling his eyes.

In the back seat, Peter watched the raindrops pelting against the windows, cringing a little at every crack of lightning overhead; normally thunderstorms didn't bother him, but then, he usually wasn't out IN them. He was usually safe at the Pad, and he didn't have pictures of vampire bats and Frankenstein's monsters in his head.

"Well, we're lost. I got no idea where we are now." Mike released a frustrated sigh. "Let's just find a house and see if we can call the club for directions."

"Ey, there was a castle up the road a couple of miles back," Davy piped up, jerking his thumb towards the back of the car. "Maybe they've got a phone we can use."

"Works for me." Mike executed a three point turn in the rain-slick narrow country road and wheeled them back around the way they'd come and headed towards the potential refuge.

As the car approached the black wrought iron fence encircling the property, Peter felt his eyes growing wide as he stared at the foreboding structure looming on the horizon; faint light glowed in a couple of windows, and jagged streaks of lightning illuminated the castle, showing just how run-down it truly was. _And was that an Enter At Your Own Risk sign I saw?_ he thought, twisted around to see if he could spot it again, but the darkness swallowed the gate as soon as they passed through it.

"Um...Mike...?" Peter spoke hesitantly as Mike parked the car right out in front of the castle and killed the engine. "I've got a bad feeling about this..."

"Don't worry, Peter," Mike replied breezily. "It's just a dark, gloomy, run-down, nearly deserted castle out in the middle of nowhere. What could possibly happen?"

With that, the others piled out of the car, Peter trailing along reluctantly behind them as they hurried to the huge wooden double doors that served as an entrance. Mike reached for the heavy iron ring on the right door, grimacing as he strained to lift it, then let it fall again, and the resounding "BOOM!" seemed to echo in the halls within, audible even over the rolling thunder.

Moments passed with no response, and Peter was about to suggest that they give up and try somewhere else when suddenly the door creaked open, and a squat, bearded man peered suspiciously out at them.

"Um--hello," Mike greeted him politely. "We're The Monkees, and we got lost on the way to a gig. Could we use your phone, please?"

"The Master won't like it," the little man replied in an oddly halting voice. He took a couple of steps out into the night with them, and Peter stared at him, amazed at the unnatural size of the man's knees and thighs.

"Well, maybe you wouldn't have to tell him," Mike suggested cheerfully. "We'll just run in, use the phone real quick, and we'll be outta here before the Master even knows we're here."

Peter huddled close against Mike's back partially for warmth and shelter against the chilly rain and partially out of a sense of dread that was stealing over him the longer they remained anywhere near this awful place. Micky and Davy drew closer to the other two as well, but otherwise, they didn't seem nervous.

"Very well." It was clear the henchman had reservations about letting them in, but he stepped out of the way and waved them into the entrance hall. "My name is Torgo. Enter freely and of your own will."

Mike strode across the threshold without hesitation; Davy followed quickly, glancing around at the dreary interior as he did; Micky paused, glancing once over his shoulder before following his friends, and Peter had to fight the urge to turn and run. But he took a deep breath and walked in. As soon as he stepped inside, the solid wood door swung on its hinges, crashing shut behind him, trapping them within the sepulchral confines of the castle. The sound of the door crashing shut nearly made Peter jump out of his skin. The others were already following Torgo down the long, shadowy corridor, and he broke into a run, his heart pounding as he raced to catch up.

"Fellas! Wait up!" he called, flailing his arms frantically to get their attention. The foursome obligingly paused long enough for him to reach them; Micky and Davy seemed amused by his antics; Mike appeared a trifle impatient, and Torgo looked...Well, like Torgo. Peter skidded to a stop near them, resting one hand on his chest as he fought to catch his breath.

"Sorry--the door scared me," he explained sheepishly.

"Well, can we go now?" Mike asked, exasperation lacing his voice. "I just wanna use the phone and get outta here," he added, casting an uneasy look around at his surroundings.

As they continued down the hall, they passed by another set of double doors, these taller and more narrow than the doors guarding the entrance, and as they listened, they could hear the faint sound of music beyond.

"Hey, are we crashing a party?" Micky asked, his eyes lighting up with excitement.

"The Master is having an affair," Torgo said noncommittally.

"Does the Master like rock-and-roll music?" Mike asked hopefully.

"No," Torgo answered bluntly. "He doesn't like long-haired weirdos either."

"Who is your Master, anyway?" Davy piped up.

"His name is Collins. Barnabas Collins. This way to the telephone." Torgo led them down seemingly endless dank hallways that were lit only by dim, low-wattage lights scattered at great intervals apart, casting faint circles of light on the floor with vast pools of inky blackness between them.

"Mike," Micky whispered, his hushed voice seeming to echo down the cold stone corridor. "I think maybe Peter was right about this place. Maybe we should just get outta here and try somewhere else."

"We've come this far," Mike replied pragmatically. "Besides, do you remember how to turn us around and get us back to the front door, Mr. Navigator?"

"Um...no..." "Well, neither do I." Mike grimaced as he watched Torgo shuffling ahead of them. "We shoulda left a trail of breadcrumbs or something."

Abruptly, Torgo turned a sharp corner and, opening a door on the left, gestured them inside. "You'll find the telephone in there."

"Groovy!" Micky dashed past Torgo and into the room, darting his gaze all over the small, dimly lit parlor until he spotted the phone; grabbing the receiver, he began dialling as quickly as he could, and Peter watched with growing anticipation until he saw Micky's features crumble and fall into dejection.

"It's dead," he announced flatly, letting the useless receiver dangle from his hand.

"Dead?" Peter gasped, both hands flying to his mouth in horror. All this way for nothing!

"Dead," Micky repeated, casting an accusing glare at Torgo.

"The storm must have washed the line out." The henchman shrugged ngeligently, and the four young men released a collective groan.

"Well, now what?" Micky demanded. "The phone's dead, we're lost, we've missed our gig, and…" He glanced out the window at the rain, shivering a little at the sound of shutters slapping the side of the building and the wind whipping furiously through the trees. "And it looks like the storm has gotten worse."

"It has indeed," Torgo agreed. "You will have to stay the night."

"Stay?" Peter yelped. That was the last thing he wanted to do! He'd rather spend the night in the car...if he knew how to find it again, that is.

"Pete, he's right," Mike said, and judging from the look on his face, he was none too pleased about the prospect either. "We got no choice. It's that or risk gettin in a wreck drivin around on wet roads, and I'm tired anyway. You wanna take a chance on me fallin asleep at the wheel?"

"Someone else could drive..." Peter suggested hesitantly, but Micky and Davy both shook their heads.

"We're tired too, big Peter," Micky added, and Davy nodded agreement.

"So it's settled," Mike said firmly. "We'll stay here tonight and get a head start first thing in the morning."

"I'll show you to your rooms," Torgo replied, gesturing for them to follow him, and--reluctantly--they did.

With his massive thighs hindering his gait, Torgo slowly led them back down the shadowy corridor, up a curving flight of stairs covered with a well-worn crimson runner; once they were on the second floor, he opened the first door on the left and waved them all inside. The bedroom was as gloomy as the rest of the castle, its furniture threadbare and dusty; as they looked around, they could see rats scuttling along the floorboards, and spiders had draped ornate webs over nearly everything.

"Kinda reminds you of home, doesn't it?" Micky whispered, nudging Mike in the ribs and pointing at a particularly large cockroach disappearing under the wardrobe.

"No, man," Mike whispered back. "We decorate in Early Poor Bachelor. This is Late Gothic Horror. Totally different styles."

"You," Torgo announced, pointing to Davy, "may stay in this room."

Davy swallowed hard as he glanced around. "Lucky me." He uttered a shaky laugh as the others followed Torgo out the door again, leaving him alone.

Micky was given the room next to Davy's, and he exhibited about as much enthusiasm as Davy had about being left by himself, but he said nothing. But when Mike was shown to the room across the hall and Torgo indicated that Peter should follow him to the room next door, Peter balked.

"I want to stay here where it's safe--with you, Mike," Peter said, throwing his arms around Mike's shoulders and clutching tightly as if Torgo would have to pry him loose to get him to leave.

"Aw, now don't be silly, man," Mike admonished him as he pried loose Peter's death-grip around his neck. "I'll be right next door. Nothing's gonna happen anyway. You'll be fine."

"Promise?" Peter gazed at him with wide, puppy-dog eyes, and Mike nodded firmly.

"Go to bed, Peter. You'll feel a lot better in the morning."

With that, Peter reluctantly followed Torgo out, casting forlorn glances at Mike over his shoulder the whole way; once he was settled in his own room and Torgo had shut the door behind himself, Peter explored every inch of the dusty, drab bedroom, checking inside drawers and under the bed for any hint of spectral activity, but all seemed quiet and safe. Heaving a deep sigh of relief, he slipped off his shoes and belt and climbed into bed.

"There IS an up side to all this," he said to the empty room. "At least I don't have to share a bed with the others."

Peter didn't know how much time had passed before he was awakened by a light touch on his face, the way his mother used to caress his cheek to wake him up for school when he was little. Smiling, he opened his eyes…and looked straight into the raggedly swathed face of a mummy.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" Scrabbling backwards, he struggled to untangle himself from the sheets as the mummy reached for him, tattered shreds of dirty, moldy cloth dangling from its hands. He kicked off the covers and leaped out of bed, making a mad dash for the door, but the mummy blocked his path, and he retreated to the other side of the room instead.

"MIKE!" he shrieked, plastering himself against the wall as the mummy shuffled closer, its arms out-stretched as if it could already anticipating closing its deadly grip around his throat. "MIKE! MICKY! DAVY!"

But no help arrived, and Peter's brain whirled as he tried to come up with an escape plan himself. As he watched, the mummy let out a menacing growl as it approached, its filthy rags hanging like banners from its body. Suddenly, inspiration struck, and Peter darted forward, lunging beneath the mummy's flailing hands and grabbing the end of one of the streamers. Mustering all his strength, he yanked hard, sending the mummy into a spin, the bandage unraveling with every turn. The monster roared its protest, but Peter kept on tugging, the length of rag continuing and continuing like a magician's scarf until he wondered if he'd ever reach the end of it. And then suddenly with a dusty POOF! the last bit of cloth fell away, and the ancient remains of the body beneath collapsed into a pile of dust at Peter's feet. He dropped the mummy's wrapping and wiped his brow, a sense of profound triumph washing over him as it sank in that he'd defeated the monster.

But his elation was short lived when he realized that if HE had been attacked, then perhaps his friends had been as well... As soon as he flung open the bedroom door, Peter heard the screams from across the hall, and he immediately recognized them as Micky's from the pitch and hysterical intensity.

"Micky!" he yelled as he darted to his friend's room. "Micky, are you okay?" He grabbed the doorknob, hoping it wouldn't prove to be locked, and it wasn't; it turned easily in his hand, and he shoved the door open so quickly he nearly caused himself to stumble and fall into the room. Glancing around, Peter saw Micky make a flying leap onto the bed, bounding over it in two steps as he tried to escape the clutches of a beautiful young woman who was chasing him.

"Well, that's certainly a switch," Peter remarked, bewildered by this turn of events…until the girl let out a fierce cry when she lunged for Micky and missed, revealing a set of sharp, deadly fangs as soon as she opened her mouth.

"Help me, man!" Micky shrieked, running to hide behind Peter, using his friend as a living shield between himself and the vampiress. "She's trying to drink my blood!"

"Yessss," she hissed, glaring at Micky with malevolent glee. "And when I do, you will become one of us!"

"I don't wanna be a vampire, Pete! I don't wanna drink blood and wear a black cape all the time and have to talk in a really weird accent!"

"But just think," the lovely monster replied enticingly. "You can sleep all day and party all night. It's great to be a vampire."

"No!" Peter cried staunchly, planting himself firmly between the blood-sucking temptress and Micky. "You can't have him!"

"Oh?" She stopped in her tracks, lifting one delicate eyebrow as she plainly scoffed at his defiance. "And what are you going to do to stop me?"

Peter hesitated a moment. "That's a very good question..." he mused, his brain racing as he tried to think of how to escape her evil trap.

"And we need a very good answer--fast!" Micky said, clutching Peter's shoulders tight.

Sweeping his gaze around the room, Peter spotted Micky's drumsticks lying on the night stand.

"I've got it!" he exclaimed, darting over to grab them. Overlapping the two sticks, he held them up in the shape of a cross, and the vampiress screamed as if she were in agony at the sight; recoiling as he stalked towards her, she scrambled to get away, but soon she hit the wall, and there was nowhere to else for her to go. She cowered before Peter, flinging her arms over her face to shield her, but he didn't back off in the slightest.

"Micky--break off one of those chair legs," he instructed, not taking his eyes off the vampire in case she decided to make a break for freedom. "We'll use it as a stake! And get one of those marble bookends off the shelf too."

Micky kicked and battered one of the rickety old chairs in the room until a leg came free, its splintered end forming a sharp enough point for their purposes. Then he got the bookend and took the items to Peter.

"Okay..." Peter's expression turned stern as he nodded towards the vampiress. "Stake her."

"Me?" Micky did a double-take as he stared at Peter, agape. "Why me? Why do I gotta stake her? Why can't you stake her?"

"Because I'm holding the cross--er--the drumsticks!" he retorted. "Do you want this chick trying to kill you until dawn?"

"No..."

"Well, then stake her!"

"Oh, all right..." Micky grumbled as he knelt down beside the writhing monster. "I dunno, Pete. She's kinda cute..."

"Just do it!"

"Okay, okay. Don't get excited, man." I

gnoring her screams, Peter held the make-shift cross aloft while Micky placed the chairleg stake over her heart and drove it home with the heavy bookend, reducing the foul creature of the night to a shriveled, crumbling skeleton at their feet.

"Bleah!" Micky dropped the bookend, letting it fall to the floor with a resounding THUNK! as he jumped up, staring down at himself in distaste. "Yuck! Now I'm all covered in blood..."

"Better than having her drink yours," Peter replied, and Micky turned to him with a grateful smile.

"Yeah, man--you saved my life," he said softly. "I owe you."

"Nah." Peter beamed at him. "You'd have done the same for me." "Yeah, I think--" But whatever Micky was going to say was interrupted by the sound of a single scream that, judging from the tone, could have only come from one person--a scream that was abruptly silenced. Micky and Peter exchanged horrified looks, their hands flying to their cheeks as they exclaimed in unison: "MIKE!"

Peter and Micky burst into Mike's bedroom without bothering to knock, both of them frantically scanning for a glimpse of their friend, but to their surprise, the room was empty. The bed was disheveled as if Mike had indeed been sleeping in it, but Peter was horrified to see chairs and tables overturned--even broken--as if a struggle had taken place. And there was no sign of Mike, not even his green wool hat.

"Mike?" Micky whimpered, nibbling his fingernails as he glanced around, his light brown eyes wide with fear. "Mike? Are you in here? Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

Peter frowned in concentration as he scouted around the room, peering under the bed and in the closet in search of their missing bandmate.

"Ollie, ollie, oxen free!" Micky called, huddling in the middle of the room while Peter explored.

Finally, Peter turned his attention to the one table that hadn't been toppled, noticing a large covered silver platter resting atop it. Intrigued, he hurried over to it, looking it over carefully. What was it doing there anyway? Had Mike ordered room service?

"Micky, did you get anything like this in your room?" he asked, and Micky shook his head quickly. "Hhmm..."

Curiosity finally won out, and Peter reached for the handle of the lid, lifting it away to see what was beneath--only to recoil in horror when he realized he was staring down at Mike's severed head, his green wool hat still in place.

"M-Micky..." he whispered, backing away slowly. "Micky!"

Micky whirled around, his jaw falling open, but no sound came out as he stared at the gruesome sight. Instinctively, they drew closer together, clinging to each other for comfort and support.

"What're we gonna do?" Micky gasped hoarsely. "Peter--they got Mike. What do we do now?"

"I don't know..." Peter untangled himself from Micky's grasp and approaching what little remained of their friend. Bending a little, he got down to eye-level with Mike's head, examining it closely, hoping to find a clue about what happened. Tentatively, he reached out and touched the pale, cold cheek--and suddenly Mike's eyes flew open.

"I ain't got nobody! And nobody cares for me!" Mike sang loudly and off-key, and Peter screamed shrilly, stumbling backwards in his haste to get away. "What's wrong, ol' buddy?" Mike asked amiably, sounding remarkably cheerful for someone without a body.

"Mike!" Peter exclaimed, feeling his heart pounding against the walls of his chest as he fought to calm his whirling mind. "What--? How--? I mean--what happened to you?"

"Dunno." And if he'd still had shoulders, Mike probably would have shrugged. "I was asleep, heard a noise, woke up and saw some evil mad scientist. He knocked me out, and next thing I know, I'm doing an impression of John the Baptist."

"Evil mad scientist...?" Micky echoed hoarsely.

"But what happened to the rest of you?" Peter demanded. "And how can you still talk? What are you doing still alive?"

"You're askin ME?" Mike countered, his expression incredulous. "I just told you, man--I was out of it. I got no more idea about what happened than you do."

"But--" Peter scrunched up his forehead, trying to puzzle this new mystery out, but his efforts at concentrating were cut short by yet another piercing scream--and there was only one person left who could have uttered it.

"DAVY!" Peter, Micky and Mike chorused together. Peter raced out the door, but Micky paused long enough to grab the silver tray Mike--what was left of him--rested on, scooping it up in both arms before bounding out of the room.

"HEY!" Mike protested as his hat fell over one eye. "Watch it, man--you're messin up my hair."

The door to Davy's bedroom was standing wide open, and Peter ran inside, terrified at what he might encounter next--especially once he heard the growling and snarling issuing from within the room. He was relieved to see that Davy wasn't missing any body parts--yet. Instead, he saw Davy gripping a chair by its back, holding it up as a shield while he backed away from the slavering were-beast menacing him.

"Petah!" Davy glanced up, his features suffused with relief when he saw his friend. "Petah, help me!"

The wolf-man roared and slashed at Davy with its deadly claws, and Davy shrieked as he thrust the chair at it, trying to ward it off, but as Peter watched the horrifying scene playing out before him, the wolf-man grabbed the chair legs and flung it away, eliminating Davy's only means of defense. Behind him, Peter could feel Micky's presence, but a glance over his shoulder told him that even if Micky weren't paralyzed with fear, there was nothing he could do with Mike's tray in his hands. It was up to him. Squaring his shoulders, he scanned the room for something to use as a weapon, but it was barren, and he saw nothing that would be suitable. What was he to do? He didn't have a silver bullet--or anything else silver for that matter--or any wolf's bane. Nothing that could possibly ward off a werewolf.

"Petah!" Davy stretched out his hand, pleading with Peter as the wolfman slowly backed him into a corner. In a matter of moments, he'd hit the wall, and the creature would have him. "Petah! Help me!"

What could he do? His mind whirled, but no answers presented themselves. He'd saved himself and Micky, but he'd been too slow to save Mike, and now it appeared Davy was going to be ripped to shreds in front of his very eyes!

"Petah! Petah!"

Davy's piteous cries wrung Peter's heart, but when he tried to move--tried to attack the monster with his bare hands--he found his feet were rooted to the spot. He couldn't move, he couldn't speak; he could only watch as Death closed in on his friend.

"Petah! Petah!"

He struggled to unfreeze himself, tears welling in his eyes as he fought to reach Davy's side to no avail—

"Petah! Petah!"

Closer and closer--the werewolf raised its paw, poised to strike--

"PETAH!"

"DAVY! NO!!"

Peter sat upright, Mr. Bean tumbling to the floor as he stared wildly around the room--his own room--his panicky gaze falling on Davy, who stood next to his bed, one hand in Peter's shoulder as he shook him awake.

"Cool it, man. You're all right." Davy patted his back soothingly. "It was just a dream." He paused, smiling sympathetically as he said, "Sounds like a pretty bad one, too."

"It was!" Peter nodded vehemently, his eyes wide and round. "It was awful!" Both hands flew to his cheeks as the details flooded his brain, and he immediately leaped out of bed. "Where's Mike?"

"Upstairs with Micky getting ready for the gig," Davy replied, visibly bewildered. "Why--?"

But Peter was already running out the door and up the spiral staircase, barging into the upstairs bedroom without knocking. Micky stood in the middle of the room wearing nothing but his red eight-button shirt--only partially buttoned--and a pair of paisley boxer shorts; Mike was by the closet with his pants on but shirtless. But he had a body! He wasn't just a head on a plate! Peter thought, suffused with relief.

"Mike! You're whole!" he shouted, racing over to Mike and throwing his arms around him, hugging him joyously.

"What?" Mike stared down at him, his expression clearly saying he thought Peter had lost his mind. "What're you talkin about?"

"I had a dream!" he babbled; Mike and Micky looked to Davy, who'd just walked in, for answers, but Davy could only shrug and shake his head. "We got lost on our way to the gig, and we had to spend the night at this spooky old castle, and it was scary! There was this man with really big thighs--"

"Wait--a guy with big thighs was scary?" Micky interrupted.

"Well...That part was kind of silly," Peter conceded. "But then I got chased by a mummy and I unraveled it, and then I found Micky running away from a chick--"

"That's a switch," Mike commented, earning a swat on the arm from Micky.

"--who was trying to drink his blood, and then we found Mike, but he was just a head on a silver tray, and then Davy was being chased by a werewolf and I couldn't help him, and then I woke up," he concluded, finally pausing for breath.

"Uh-huh." Mike nodded, folding his arms across his bare chest. "Mummies, vampire chicks, disembodied heads, werewolves...Sound familiar?" he demanded, turning a fierce glare on Micky, who shrugged and grinned sheepishly.

"Sorry, big Peter," Micky said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "I didn't mean to give you nightmares with my story."

"It's okay, Micky," Peter smiled warmly, feeling himself calming down considerably, the fright brought on by his horrid dream subsiding now that he was surrounded by his friends and could see that they were safe and sound--and all in one piece. "It wasn't so bad. I rescued myself and you from the monsters!"

"Good for you, man!" Micky replied with a cheerful grin of his own.

Davy chuckled, obviously amused by the idea of Peter playing the hero for any of them, but Mike's expression remained stern as he growled, "If he can't sleep alone tonight, he's sharin a bed with you."

"But he kicks!" Micky wailed.

"Yeah, well, you snore, so you're about even," Mike retorted. "Now y'all hurry up and get dressed. You guys are slow enough as it is, and I'm tired of always bein ahead."

He had just enough time to turn back to the closet and pull out his eight-button shirt before the full force of his words sank in with the other three, but as soon as it did, a chorus of agonized groans drowned out his laughter as a barrage of pillows assailed him from all sides.


End file.
